Edited 10/09/15


6. I've Been Wrong

I've got this place
That I've filled with empty space
Oh I'm trying not to face what I've done
My hopeless opus
I'm in this race and I'm hoping just to place
Oh I'm trying not to face what's become of me
My hopeless opus

[Hopeless Opus, Imagine Dragons]


This time Hermione had asked to be the one to take Malfoy his lunch having the job foisted upon her. She wanted to make sure Harry had made good on his word to make the cellar at least liveable for Malfoy; she didn't trust him not to have forgotten something important, whether on purpose or by accident. Hermione would never normally suspect Harry to treat a person badly, prisoner or not. But this was Malfoy, and somehow Hermione suspected Harry and Ron might think the rules were different where 'the ferret' was concerned. Mrs Weasley opened the trapdoor for Hermione and she picked her way down the steep steps carefully, peering into the dim space, lunch tray held in both hands.

"Malfoy?" The cellar definitely looked better, Hermione noted as she peered around looking for Malfoy. There was a neat bed, an old dresser, a card table and folding chair, and in the corner a walled off box that Hermione guessed with a blush must be the toilet. But Malfoy himself was nowhere in sight.

"Malfoy?" Hermione set the tray of food down on the card table, which wobbled briefly as she touched it. He still hadn't answered her, and Hermione had a twinge of ridiculous worry that Ron had actually murdered him. She set her hands on her jean-clad hips and stared around the room, turning around and trying to see into the many shadows. There! She thought she made out a shape by the stairs. God, what was he doing? She walked slowly over, cautious.

"Malfoy. Are you all right?" He sat on the dirt instead of his neat bed in the corner, all crumpled up into a ball. Was he hurt? Sick? Had Ron really actually hurt him somehow? Hermione's heart rate picked up for a few worried seconds, and then she rolled her eyes as he moved slightly but didn't respond.

"Malfoy!" she snapped his name sharply, annoyed at him for making her worry, and more annoyed with herself for worrying, and taking all that annoyance out on him. He looked up at last, without a smile or a word, his eyes shadowed and red rimmed like he'd been crying.

Hermione swallowed. She didn't like him. She had nothing in common with him. He had done horrible things to her, even at school, and had been there when... But, she told herself, he wasn't that person anymore, and, and he had been crying. She told herself she didn't have to like Malfoy to feel sympathy for him. Hermione bit her lip, and made a decision.

"Why are you sitting down here? You have a bed now, you know. A chair, even," she tried to joke slightly, and it fell horribly flat under the weight of his darkened eyes.

"You kept your word," he said hoarsely. "I suppose I should be grateful."

"It's the usual response in polite society, Malfoy," Hermione answered pointedly but without real malice, picking nervously at her fingernails.

"Thank you," he said quietly and without emotion, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past her shoulder, the pale light on his face showing dried tear streaks down his grubby cheeks.

"So why are you sitting down here?" Hermione prodded, more to fill in the silence than anything. She wouldn't be able to help feeling like a terrible person if she just walked out and left Malfoy tear-stained and huddled in this dark space by the stairs. She watched him bite his lip, teeth very white in the light, worrying his bottom lip gently.

"It doesn't matter... I don't..." He trailed off and then focused his eyes on her, a little clarity coming back to them. "Besides, it's clean and I'm absolutely filthy, thanks to apparently not being allowed the privilege of washing. I don't want to..." He looked down at himself; and Hermione noticed again his still-dirty clothes and his grubby face.

"Oh." Hermione hadn't thought of that. She fiddled nervously with a lock of her hair; her thick mane loose and somewhat tamed today - shiny and wavy rather than bushy. "I'll ask Harry to get a, ah, shower put down here." He was silent in response. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek; cast her gaze awkwardly about the room. Being friendly to Malfoy was bloody hard, no matter how sorry she felt for him. And him sitting there looking awful and miserable, and barely saying 'boo' didn't help either. She pressed on, though.

"Do you, um, want some company?" She smiled at him tentatively and the friendly expression seemed to confuse him, his brows scrunching together.

"If you want," he said, trying for indifference and just sounding young and uncertain and dreadfully lonely. Hermione would never have thought Draco Malfoy, a prig of the first order, was capable of seeming so normal. Of behaving and feeling just like any other teenage boy in his situation would; lonely and scared, friendless and traumatised. Not that he'd ever admit to that, she knew. Hermione nodded, the matter settled, and looked around for something to sit on. In the end she just plonked down on the floor with legs folded up under her, pulling her jersey sleeves down over her hands and tucking them in her lap as a draught nipped at her and made her shiver.

"It's Molly Weasley's cooking, of course," Hermione said after a long silence. She nodded her head over at the lunch of corned beef, vegetables and bread. "So it's absolutely delicious." Malfoy nodded silently and Hermione was left at a loss.

"You should eat it before it gets cold," she tried, and to her surprise he nodded again and struggled to his feet one-handed. It looked like it was a little difficult for Malfoy to even just stand up, and Hermione couldn't help staring in pity for a second; looking away quickly before he saw her sympathetic gaze. She jumped to her feet and brushed the dirt off the seat of her jeans trying to cover up her uncomfortableness, and then realised how easy and graceful it was for her to stand. The stark contrast between how thoughtlessly and easily she could scramble to her feet, and Draco's clumsy movements made her wince.

"There's only the one chair," Draco observed without emotion as he stared down at the tray of food, and Hermione shivered. He spoke like he was dead inside, like he'd given up. She thought again of how she didn't like him...but god did she ever feel sorry for him. She forced a smile.

"Oh... I'll be perfectly comfortable on your bed, Malfoy." The look he gave her was startled, his eyes wide and silvery in the light, looking at her like he really saw her for the first time since he'd brought his lunch down. She tucked her hair behind her ears and flushed, eyes dropping to the ground. That hadn't come out right at all. She had been trying to sound friendly, not...

"I'm sorry, what was that, Granger?" Malfoy asked, and sounded almost like a slightly nicer version of his snarky old self; his voice more animated as his eyes swept disbelievingly over her. Hermione's face felt hot.

"Um. Your bed, Malfoy. I don't mind sitting there. While, um, you eat." She paused and gulped, stumbling over her words like an idiot. "If you don't mind, of course." His response wasn't the look of contempt and mocking she half-expected; he actually smiled faintly, tired amusement crossing his face.

"Feel free, Granger," he told her dryly, and the awkward moment passed as Hermione perched on the edge of bed. She wasn't sure why she was doing this. What she did know was that solitary confinement was something that Muggle prisons used only when it was totally unavoidable, because of the enormous mental toll of being alone in a cell 24/7. And Draco wasn't a hardened adult criminal; he was, despite his actions for the other side over the years, just a teenage boy - a teenage boy who had lost his entire world, and even a part of his physical self.

She wanted to give the Order the benefit of the doubt and assume they didn't know about the effects of solitary on a mind and weren't being purposely cruel. Maybe they just took it for granted, what with Azkaban being the only magical prison in Britain - that was far worse than a cellar. Hermione wasn't really surprised Malfoy wanted her company, even though they had only exchanged a few words. What would they talk about anyway? The only shared experiences they had were negative, and although she was more comfortable being around Malfoy in regards to her flashbacks, his presence still made her feel a little shaky. Off-kilter. But she knew that that at least wasn't really his fault, telling herself over and over in the back of her mind, he let me go. He didn't have to but he let me go.

Malfoy glanced uncertainly over at Hermione, and then reached for the fork. With his right hand. The stump of his wrist stuck out over the table, and he looked down at it for a second, as if he was surprised by its scarred presence. As if he had forgotten he had it, which he obviously had. Hermione winced as she saw his face cycle through a series of emotions; brief shock, then hurt, despair, anger. Malfoy's eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, his jaw clenched and pale complexion draining further of colour. He swore, and his face crumpled as he tucked his arm quickly away out of sight again. But Hermione had already seen it; better than she had seen it before. It was a normal arm, except that it ended abruptly where it should have matched the other limb; his bony wrist, and elegant, long-fingered hand.

"Does it hurt?" Hermione asked, unable to help herself.

"Yes," was all he said, tone short and clipped, eyes slipping down to stare at the foreshortened limb.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Granger." She sat perched on the edge of the bed, her two - whole - hands twining in her lap and looked at Malfoy, fumbling with the fork, staring helplessly at the meat. Hermione had the sudden, totally mad, urge to offer to cut up the corned beef for him. She didn't. Draco Malfoy, unable to even feed himself properly. Should she be happy? Ron would be gleeful. Harry would be quietly, slightly guiltily pleased. Hermione...Hermione just felt sad.

"Thank you, Malfoy," she said impulsively, words garbled together in her embarrassed rush. He glared up at her, taken aback and immediately on the defensive.

"For what?" he asked ungraciously, and Hermione shrugged.

"For letting me go." Malfoy chuckled bitterly and for a second Hermione thought that he was going to mock her sentiment.

"It was hardly anything special, Granger," he said instead. "Most people..." His face was filled with shame and self-recrimination. Hermione shrugged again.

"We all know you aren't most people, Malfoy." She wasn't sure if she meant it as a compliment or not. "The point is, you saved my life. So...thanks," she finished awkwardly, dropping her eyes to her lap. He obviously had no idea what to say in the face of her thanks, so he said nothing. Instead he began eating slowly, his gaze sliding to rest on her every now and then, as if to check she was still there, mingled suspicion and gratitude in his look. It was cruel to keep him locked up like this, alone, with nothing to do all day but sit and dwell on everything that had happened to him. She reminded herself harshly; and everything that he has done, don't forget that too. He's no innocent.

His plate kept sliding away from him as he tried to painstakingly cut through his corned beef, and he swore under his breath. Hermione would have offered to help, but she didn't think he would appreciate it. In the end he was forced to bring out his mutilated arm, resting the upper part of his forearm on the edge of the plate to hold it still. Two red spots burnt high on his cheeks; humiliation, Hermione guessed. It was a slow process, and Hermione knew she shouldn't stare, but she couldn't stop her gaze lifting from her hands to his stump.

Malfoy caught her.

"You're staring, Granger. Didn't your mudblood parents teach you that was rude?" His voice was tight and trembled with obvious embarrassment, eyes narrowed angrily. Hermione gasped in a short breath as the slur was thrown at her, and her mouth twisted up and tears sprang to her eyes.

"Mudblood? Really, Malfoy?"

"Shit, Granger. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Malfoy cleared his throat and she saw fear dancing in his eyes. Hermione could see herself in his place; he didn't want to her go, to hear the trapdoor slam shut behind her and to be left alone, without any real human contact until god knew when.

"Force of habit," he said at last in a tight voice, and Hermione nodded, accepting that.

"Don't do it again," she told him and she could hear the coldness in her voice as she spoke.

"I won't." He was instantly apologetic and subdued; none of the arrogant Malfoy manner apparent right now as he turned humble eyes back to his lunch. There was another long silence as he ate, and she, for lack of anything else to do, watched him surreptitiously. It was peaceful, in a weird sort of way. Upstairs there was always noise and busyness, always things to be done, talk of the war nearly constantly on people's lips. Down here with Malfoy it was dim and empty apart from him, and Hermione found the silence oddly soothing.

His stump was still on the table; he hadn't hidden it back under his coat after cutting his meat up. It was scarred in red and purple, raised ridges and sunken lines, and Hermione wondered how exactly it had been done, and who had done it. Had it been Voldemort? Or had you-know-who let someone else do it, as some sort of sick reward. Her eyes were locked to it, her thoughts making her vaguely squeamish, but she just couldn't stop staring.

"Is there something you want to say, Granger?" Draco's voice cut through the air and Hermione jerked her eyes up to meet his. There was a pained expression in his. "Something you want to ask me?"

"Wh-what?" She went beetroot red.

"You're staring again, Granger."

"I - I - How did it happen, Malfoy?"

"What?" His outraged gaze pinned Hermione like a struggling beetle on its back and she wanted to take the words back but it was too late, so she just ploughed on stammeringly.

"Who...who did it? Your hand, I mean. What happened?" The set of Malfoy's features shifted, and hot outrage turned icy but no less incensed for that, eyes hard as frosted steel. Hermione was suddenly, shockingly reminded that Malfoy had the Dark Mark branded on his arm beneath his sleeve. That he had been a Death Eater. That he had, maybe not killed people, but hurt them. Tortured them. Stood by and watched people die without saying a word in their defence, because they were just mudbloods and Muggles; worthless nothings, no better than animals. He had been party to monstrous acts, if not the perpetrator of them, and he might be maimed, but Hermione saw with crystal clarity, he could still be dangerous if he chose. She stood and those cold, hard eyes followed her.

"What happened? What happened when I lost my hand? Who took it from me, who maimed me? You want to know do you, Granger? All the gory details?" His tone was pure venom and Hermione shrank from him, silent, edging around toward the stairs. "I don't see how that's any of your fucking business, Granger."

"It's not. It's not and I'm sorry I bloody well asked," she snapped; hurt trembling in her chin and welling up in her eyes. "I was just trying to... I just wondered how...who... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything and I certainly didn't mean anything by it."

"Didn't you?" He stood and loomed over her; still capable of appearing intimidating despite his too-thin frame and his arm huddled against his abdomen. "You sure about that? Not trying to dig up information for the Order, or get the story out of me so that you and Potty and the Weasel and all your little friends can laugh at me? Laugh about how the fucking ferret lost his hand?" Malfoy's face was pinched and white.

"No I didn't, you bloody prick," Hermione burst out, tears leaking from her eyes and she was too angry to bother wiping them away. She waved her arms in wild gesticulations as she shouted at Malfoy. "I don't have to be here, you know. I could just leave your food on the top step like everyone else does! But I thought you might...I thought you might be lonely, and I wanted...I wanted to make you feel better. Unlike you, I'm not an evil, pompous arsehole!" She glared at him wildly, backing towards the steps out of the cellar as she drew in gulping breaths. "But if you think I'm, I'm just some...I don't know. But I'm not going to waste my time on someone who goes off at me for asking a question!"

"It wasn't just a bloody question!" he roared at her suddenly, and Hermione's heels hit the bottom step and she almost overbalanced as she skittered back. "Asking about... You should know that's not just a bloody question. Answering those sorts of questions is opening the door to memories of pain and helplessness and...and everything. It's exposing yourself to the person who asks the question. And you should know that. So fuck you, mudblood," Malfoy ended, face anguished; still as vehement but voice quieter, chest rising and falling hard as he caught his breath, body shaking. Hermione swallowed and sniffed noisily, staring at Malfoy miserably.

"I - I have to go," she said. "I think - I think I should go now."

"Granger..." Malfoy rubbed his hand over his face, and when he pulled it away the anger was gone, leaving only pale exhaustion. Hermione licked her lips and stepped back up one step.

"I -I..." She turned and started stumbling up the steps with tear-blurred eyes and over her choking breaths heard Malfoy sigh tiredly.

"Granger...don't you understand?" She froze, shoulders stiff, facing the trapdoor and not Malfoy. She did understand, and that was partly why she was crying, partly why she wanted to just flee. It had been insensitive to ask him what she had. Bloody thick. She had been just as much an arsehole as Malfoy had, and that was a horrible truth to accept, but she did. Hermione blinked hard and nodded without looking around.

"Granger, don't go."

"Why?"

"I...Merlin, don't make me say it..." Malfoy sighed and Hermione turned around, the combination of his words and tone strangely compelling.

"Why don't you want me to go, Malfoy?" She wanted to make him say it, she wanted to hear it, and she didn't know why.

"I...I enjoyed your company, I suppose," he grated out, grey eyes luminous on hers. It sounded so surreal to hear Malfoy say those words, even reluctantly as he didn't. It had sounded like they had been physically dragged from him, under pain of death. Hermione bit her lip, pausing.

"You called me a mudblood. Again."

"You asked me who cut my hand off," he re-joined sharply and Hermione massaged her temples, a headache starting. She couldn't be around him right now; all this was just too much. Hermione was hurt and angry and guilty, and damnit, she shouldn't have to feel all those complicated, upsetting feelings because of Malfoy. He was just someone she felt sorry for. That was all. They weren't friends - they weren't even acquaintances. She had just been trying to... She sighed at herself, at her own convoluted thought processes. Hermione told herself it was because she didn't like seeing people miserable. She just hadn't wanted to leave him in the shadows behind the stairs; eyes all red from crying and with tear trails down his gaunt cheeks. And now they were both miserable and angry, and her plan to make him feel a bit less awful hadn't worked out at all.

"I...I'm just...I really should go, Malfoy. We're just... It's not... I - I'll see you later, though."

He stared at her from the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and desperate.

"Granger, please, stay. I swear I'll try not to be an arse." Hermione thumped on the trapdoor and looked down at him, staring pleadingly at her.

"I'll come back," she promised him emphatically, not knowing why she was promising. She didn't owe him anything.

"Granger... Granger..." He said her name but nothing else, tired and pleading and Hermione suddenly needed to run very, very far away. Her breath clogged in her chest and she couldn't breathe. This was Draco Malfoy the ex-Death Eater. The boy who had tried to kill Dumbledore, and very nearly killed other people in the process. The boy who hadn't done anything when she begged for help as Bellatrix tortured her. He shouldn't be standing just below her, desperation for her to stay with him written all over his face and clear in his stricken voice. Why? Why? Was he that desperate, that lonely? If so, it shouldn't be Hermione. It shouldn't be Hermione that Malfoy was depending upon, clinging to for human contact.

She couldn't do it. It was too strange, too confusing, too frightening, feeling sorry for him and almost liking him, and then looking at him and suddenly remembering something so painful, so disturbing.

Draco looked at Hermione - at her half-exposed chest with the words 'mudblood', 'scum', and 'whore' scrawled bloody above her simple white cotton bra. "What do you want?" The words were barely audible, a dull low murmur.

"Granger, please..."

"What's the point in me staying, Draco? We don't even like each other." She was brutally honest, too caught up in the snippet of memory that had come to mind to care about what she was saying. "I only stayed because you looked so miserable and I felt sorry for you...but there's no point if we're just going to snipe at each other, is there?" He stiffened and his mouth tightened.

"Felt sorry for me. Huh. Thanks, Granger."

"Well what did you think? You don't like me either, Malfoy!" Hermione flapped her arms uselessly at her sides and growled under her breath.

"Well...no, but... I don't need your pity!" Malfoy's voice rose as he shook his head, rejecting her sympathy, looking away from her, his mouth twisting unhappily.

"Well you haven't got anything else," Hermione said tightly, tears stinging at her eyes. It sounded awful but it was the truth. If he didn't want her pity, then what did he have left? His stupid bloody pride? That wasn't going to keep him company. Malfoy looked up at her then, sharp and furious.

"Then maybe you should go, because I don't fucking want that." He turned and walked away, sat down on the edge of his bed and Hermione was about say, "what do you expect, Draco? I'm trying my best here!" when the trapdoor opened and light flooded down.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice came down, and his smiling, tired face appeared in the trapdoor hole.

"Coming Harry," she answered, but she kept looking back over her shoulder as she surmounted the last few steps, at Draco sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her, his features perfectly composed. She half-wanted to go back down and try to talk Draco around, to make things as right as they ever could be between them, but she didn't.

It was much, much later, and Hermione was reading a book when she realised she had thought of Draco - there it was again - by his first name. Why on earth had she done that? Hermione stared at the small black print in her book but didn't see it, repeating in her head as though tasting the alien flavour of it; Draco.

Draco.